


Baby, you should stick around

by ElisAttack



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A zombie apocalypse fic where no zombies appear, Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Botany, Cabin Fic, Derek Hale Takes Care of Stiles Stilinski, Derek is a Good Alpha, Fanart, Full Shift Werewolves, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pack Feels, Post-Zombie Apocalypse, Sick Stiles Stilinski, Stiles has been though a lot, Werewolf Reveal, horticulturalist derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-10 10:37:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6980938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek's driving along a stretch of highway when an unusual sight makes him slow down, the engine of his old pickup rattling in protest.</p><p>There's a kid standing by the side of the road.</p><p>It's the middle of nowhere, the goddamn apocalypse, and this kid is standing by the side of the road with his thumb pointed skyward.  Like he's playing at being a hitchhiker.</p><p>Or the one where Stiles thinks he's all alone in a post-apocalyptic world, until he meets Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote half of this on Tumblr a few months back, and said I'd never finish it, but I suddenly got inspired to write more, yay!
> 
> Title from MS MR's Dark Doo Wop, the catchiest song ever written about an end of the world romance.

When Stiles was still a little kid, a permanent set of band aids across each klutzy knee, his mom used to tell him stories.   Stories about monsters and things that go bump in the night.  But also stories about good fairies and heroes triumphing over evil.  

She would tuck him in, making sure nothing but his head peeked from the blankets.  If even a toe was exposed, he would wake her in the middle of the night, screaming and crying about monsters gnawing at his feet.  His blanket was safe, everything else wasn't.

His fears never stopped her from telling him stories.  His mom was never one to sugar coat things.  She knew there was evil in the world.  She knew some parents tried to shield their kids from all those horrors.  To protect them as parents are wont to do.

But Claudia Stilinski knew nothing good ever came from lies.  It just led to more fear and heartbreak.  Better to tell the truth, to wean Stiles to all the bad, then have him suddenly thrust into a cruel world with no idea on how to get by.

Maybe that's why he's survived so long.

For the millionth time since that first snow flake fell from the sky, when he crossed what was once the American-Canadian border, Stiles wonders where that fairy tale hero was when patient zero stumbled off a plane and vomited black goo over some poor flight attendant. 

He's in a blizzard, and he has nothing but his thoughts and a desperate urge to find shelter keeping him warm.  Adrenaline doesn't last forever, even though it's the only thing that's kept him going for the two weeks he's been walking along this godforsaken highway.  Ever since he ran out of gas and had to abandon his motorbike outside the Winnipeg city limits.

He hasn't seen another vehicle since, and didn't bother venturing into the city, afraid of coming across survivors, hungry for his supplies. 

It's too far north and too cold for the infected to survive.  But it isn't them he fears, it's the humans.  The infected are slow, clumsy, and easily dispatched with a swing of a bat, a bolt in the eye socket.  But the humans, they are vicious and more coldblooded than the infected could ever be.

Stiles shudders, and not from the cold, remembering what he saw in the suburbs of Minneapolis. 

Half eaten corpses, bite marks the size of human teeth.  The infected don't eat people, they can't, nor do they want to.  When Stiles still had a sense of humour, he used to joke and say they're solar powered, running on heat from the sun.  What else could explain how they freeze solid in the cold, but in California, they could _run_.

The infected only want to spread the parasite.  That's their one purpose.  Survival of their species.

But humans, they need to eat. 

It's been two years since patient zero.  Thirteen months since the market crashed and money became all but worthless.  One year since the government abandoned its people.  Eleven months since all social safety nets were thrown out the window.  Ten months since the shelves of abandoned grocery stores were stripped of anything resembling food. 

Some people are resourceful.   Setting up communities to grow their own food.  When Stiles passed through Nebraska, he found one such community.  A chain link fence surrounded it, guarded by men with rifles, protecting an expansive field of corn.  Stiles had considered raising a white flag, offering to trade with the men, but he was cautious.  As his mom taught him. 

He held back, watching through his binoculars for a few days, and it was a good thing he did.  Another survivor had noticed the community and approached with his arms raised, only to be mowed down by gunfire without any hesitation. 

Stiles supposes it's a good thing the further north he goes, the emptier the land gets.  Of both humans and the infected.

He keeps himself fed with a well oiled crossbow.  It belonged to a friend, but now it belongs to him.  He doesn't come across big prey as he once did before the outbreak, when he was able to hunt without dragging along everything he owns in the world.  He used to hunt to put something interesting on the table for his family, something that wasn't plain cow or chicken.  Now he hunts to survive; living on squirrels, rabbits, and the occasional bird. 

What he would give for a bite of plain old cow.

What he would give for a fire.

But he has to keep moving.  He has to find shelter.

Stiles walks along the empty Highway 6, nothing but snow, and the vague shapes of trees keeping him company.  No thoughts but _need shelter_ and _north, keep heading north_ in his mind. 

When sharp yellow headlights cut through the whiteout and focus on him, he feels something in him break.  He's at the end of his rope.  He's tired, hungry, and he doesn't want to die out by the side of a highway.

Shivering to his very bone, Stiles unlocks his stiff arms from where they are wrapped around his cold body, and slowly lifts his arm, thumb extended skyward. 

He figures, there's a hundred percent chance he's going to die out in the cold, but it's only slightly less probable the person driving the incoming vehicle will slaughter him and eat him for dinner.

Stiles will take whatever he can get.

***

Derek sees the figure standing by the side of the road, his thumb raised.  At first he can't believe it, and he thinks his mind is playing tricks on him.  After all, what are the chances?  But he stops anyway, his conscience would never forgive him if he didn't.

He rolls down the window, instantly filling the car with blowing snow and freezing air, but he isn't about to get out.  What's a little cold compared to a potentially murderous hitchhiker?

"You got a name, kid?"  Derek asks, head leaning out of the window, one arm placed nonchalantly on the edge of the glass like he doesn't have a care in the world.  Like this isn't the fucking apocalypse and he doesn't have to be careful, so damn careful.  Derek isn't stupid.  His other hand reaches for the shotgun in the passenger's seat, pulling it into his lap, ready to whip it out if need be.

He learned, long ago, to never underestimate humans.  His teeth and claws can do a lot of damage, but to use them, he has to get close, too close for comfort.  A shotgun helps with that.

The kid shivers and shuffles his feet, mouth chewing nervously at the frayed string of a dirty, worn parka.  He looks about a thousand years old and sixteen at the same time.  When he looks up to meet Derek's gaze under thick eyelashes, his eyes glow amber in the reflected light of the whiteout.  The kid shrugs.

"Does it matter?"  He asks, voice rusty and disused, with a hint of roughness underneath like he's coming down with a cough.  If Derek was capable of getting infected, he would have taken off faster than the wind.  But he can't get sick, none of his pack can.  Perks of being a werewolf.  He can smell influenza on the boy, but not the rotting sweetness of the parasite.  He isn't infected, just sick, and he will die without Derek's help.

Derek huffs, eyeing the kid critically, from the soles of his worn thin boots, to the aluminum baseball bat coved in incriminating red stains, to the expensive and well cared for crossbow, to the artistic stitches dividing one eyebrow into two.  He looks like he's been through hell, and knowing the state of the world, he probably has been.

Derek makes a decision.  Tipping his head to the passenger's side door, he says, "Get in."  Picking up the gun, he places it out of the kid's sight, but still within reach.

The kid narrows his eyes, like he didn't expect Derek to help, and now that he has, it makes him suspicious.  But he moves anyway, stomping through the snow to the other side of the truck.  He climbs inside, limbs long and sprawling, keeping his large bag tucked between his knees instead of throwing it into the backseat.  Smart.  Derek appreciates intelligence, it’s a useful trait to have when all alone in the wilderness. 

He pulls off the side when the kid shuts the door with a soft click, and resumes the drive back to his cabin.  The pick up's snow chains rattle and crunch through the dense snow, gripping the crumbling asphalt beneath.

"What should I call you then, if your name doesn't matter?"  Derek glances at the kid out of the corner of his eye.  Now that he's closer, Derek realizes he doesn't look as young as he thought.  He's maybe in his early twenties, possibly mid.  Definitely not sixteen, probably hasn't been for a long time. 

The kid stares out the windshield, not even looking at Derek, and not answering the question.  But the relief in the twitch of his fingers is evident as the warmth pouring from the heater floods his frozen body.

"I'm just going to keep calling you kid in my head if you don't give me something to work with."  Yeah, Derek's feeling chatty, but he can't be blamed.  He hasn't seen a human in years, even before he found out the world went to shit.  He's been living up in Canada with his small pack of wolves for a long, long time.

"I'm not a kid."  The kid says with a hint of indignation in his voice.

"Is that so?"  Derek chuckles when the kid finally turns to him, a sour expression pulling his lips into a frown.

"Fine."  The kid sighs, pained, "Call me _Steve_."

"You don't look like a _Steve_ ,"  Derek remarks, reaching for the console, and cranking up the heat.  The old truck relents with a complaining groan.  He doesn't need it that high, but the kid looks like he has ice wedged in between his bones, he's so stiff.

'Steve' makes a noise of frustration.  "There's no satisfying you, is there?"  He grumbles, reaching out for the vent where the heat comes through, making a faint noise of pleasure when cold fingers meet hot air.  "It's Stiles."  He says finally and reluctantly, as if it was guilt tripped out of him when Derek shared his heater.

"Stiles."  Derek rolls the name over his tongue before nodding, the name fits much better than _Steve_.

"Seriously?"  Stiles remarks, eyebrows raised, "Steve, a perfectly reasonable name for a white guy, you question.  But Stiles, a invented sounding name if anything else, doesn't even get a raised brow.  What have you been smoking?"

Derek grins wolfily, "Not weed, that's for sure."  At Stiles' questioning look he explains,  "Doesn't grow this far up north, not enough sun, and I can't afford to waste electricity on UV lamps."

Stiles scoffs, "You sound like a man who tried."

"Oh, I've tried alright.  Nothing much else to do up here except read and try to grow useful plants.  The game is plentiful, the vegetation safe to eat so long as you know what you're looking for, and I know what I'm looking for."  Derek says proudly.  "The land provides everything I need to exist except gasoline and entertainment."

Stiles tips his head to the side.  "Is that why you picked me up?  Entertainment?"

Derek shrugs, "If nothing else."

Stiles purses his lips, then nods his head, accepting his answer, but his shoulders stiffen perceptibly. 

Derek realizes how his words could be taken and he cringes.  Not wanting to make Stiles uncomfortable or feel threatened, he continues, "You never mentioned.  Where are you heading?  I can drop you off in a nearby town, but you're unlikely to find anything but snow."  Everyone's dead, he leaves unsaid but implied.

Stiles shrugs, "Honestly, I didn't expect to make it this far."  He chuckles humourlessly.  "I hadn't planned out much except making it up here."

"The infected don't come this far north."  Derek says, "Their limbs freeze and they get buried under the heavy snowfall."

Stiles nods, "I've been heading north ever since I figured that one out."

"So you're not here to find family?"

Stiles snorts, turning away from Derek to look out the passenger side window.  "Are you here because of family?"  He asks in return, hurt clouding his voice with derision.  Derek doesn't let it get to him.  He's here because his family is dead, but he made peace with that long ago, long before the outbreak.  But the hurt must still be new for Stiles if it smarts enough for him to become defensive.

Derek wonders about what he's been though.  What caused the pain, who he lost.  Parent, friend, girlfriend.  But instead of asking like his curiosity is itching for him to, he pushes the topic aside.

"Fair enough."  Derek says, looking back to the road, concentrating on driving them to the warm cabin.  He can clear out the guestroom for Stiles and hopefully he'll stay a fortnight, or two, maybe forever.  The pack will ask questions, but Derek knows they'll like him.  After all, their Alpha already does.


	2. Chapter 2

 The drive is long and quiet. 

At first, the man attempted conversation, introducing himself as Derek.  He talked about the other people in his group, naming them and describing them.  Stiles doesn't offer up anything but short, distracted grunts in return, so eventually Derek tapers off.

Truth be told, Stiles was trying to listen, but he has a throbbing headache.  Every single mile the truck crawls forward, the more it aches.  His skin is growing clammy, and his vision is starting to blur.  Now that he isn't freezing to death, he figures he's coming down with something.

Derek keeps sending him worried looks, pressing harder on the gas pedal, like he knows Stiles is feeling sick.  It makes him nervous.  The looks don't help with his working theory that Derek plans on eating him for dinner.  He's probably driving faster so he kill Stiles quickly before he gets sicker.  No one wants to ingest sickly meat.  Why else would Derek care about what happens to him?  No one else has cared in a long time.

Stiles leans his face against the window, the chill from the glass soothing the heat pouring from his skin.  Derek seems to notice, and finally cranks down the heat.  With one hand on the wheel, he reaches in the backseat with the other, fumbling around for something.  Stiles stiffens, hand wrapping tight around his bat, readying himself for Derek to pull out a gun to kill him.

A water bottle lands in his lap.

"Drink."  Derek says, "You have to stay hydrated."

Stiles' fingers loosen from the cold aluminum and he quickly grabs at the bottle, suddenly realizing just how thirsty he is.  He cracks it open and chugs down the water with purpose.  It freezes his throat as it goes, ice crystals scratching, but he can't bring himself to care.  The water tastes fresh and clean, miles different from the stale snow he used to defrost in zip bags between his parka and body.

"There's a natural hot spring near the cabin,"  Derek explains, "We get all our water from it."

Stiles groans.

"Fuck."  Derek swears lowly and under his breath.  "Stay with me Stiles, c'mon, home is only twenty minutes away.  Keep your face pressed to that window."  Derek gently nudges Stiles so he tips over more, cheek slipping in the condensation he breathes on the glass.

Stiles closes his eyes.

He wakes when he feels a blast of cold air and sleet slam into his body.  A dark figure stands over him, looming, threatening and large.  Stiles panics.  The figure reaches for him, placing an arm beneath his knees, and one at the small of his back, but Stiles shoves himself away.  He tips backward and hits his head against something hard, a gear shift.  He's in a vehicle for some reason, and his thoughts are too foggy to figure out why.

He groans but keeps moving as far as he can from the figure, blood trickling through his hair, trailing down his scalp from where he hit it.  He feels delirious, and he knows he's imagining things, when the figure's eyes glow a sharp and vibrant red.

Stiles reaches behind himself, blindly, until his hand meets a handle.  He pulls it down and pushes, suddenly feeling the piercing cold wind slam into him from behind.  With one last kick to the figure grabbing at his legs, he pushes himself from the vehicle.

"Stiles!"  The figure calls as he falls, but his voice is swallowed by the wind and Stiles does not recognize it.  Everyone who knows that name is dead.  He trusts no one. 

It's only when he plunges into the deep snow drifts that he realizes he has his loaded crossbow strapped to his back.

He was taught never to carry around a loaded crossbow, but that was then, and this is now.  He fumbles for the weapon, pulling it off his back.  Picking himself up from the snow, he jogs away from the vehicle, hoping to put some distance between him and the figure.  Fear makes his heart thump in a staccato.  He doesn't want to die out here.

Stiles spins around when he hears the crunching of snow, indicating that the figure is pursuing him.  His vision swims, but he steels himself, he can pass out later.  Right now he has to eliminate the threat.

Once, Stiles called out warnings to attackers, but he stopped doing that long before he left California.  The determined never give up, never listen, and keep charging.  No words ever get though.  So Stiles stopped using them.  He aims for the figure's neck, even as his vision blurs.  He has one shot, he might as well make it count.

He squeezes the trigger.

*** 

Derek catches the bolt before it can punch though his neck.  He swears under his breath when Stiles promptly faints, neck twisting almost comically as his eyes roll back in his head, plunging face first towards the earth.  Derek throws away the bolt and catches him before he can fall into the snow.

Stiles must have thought him an attacker in his feverish state.  He didn't recognize Derek and so completely freaked out when he tried to pick him up.  Derek can't blame him.  Stiles smells like a burning brick oven, and Derek can almost hear his cells cooking with fever.  He has to get him inside as fast as he can, before his brain fries to a crisp.

He starts running towards the nearby cabin, calling out to his pack, knowing they can hear him.  Erica is the first to step onto the porch.  She takes one look at Stiles cradled in his arms, before her eyes widen and she waves him in.

Derek rushes through, not bothering to remove his shoes, dragging snow everywhere.  The old wooden floorboards creak as he moves towards the living room, placing Stiles on the sofa.  Boyd rises from his armchair, wide eyed, a book in hand that he promptly puts down.

Derek turns to Boyd, ordering,  "Bring me some snow from outside, clean cloths, and a bowl of water."

Boyd nods, and moves to do what Derek asked.

Stiles groans, sweating profusely, as his eyes move frantically beneath closed lids.  Like he's still fleeing from Derek in his mind.  Carefully, Derek pushes his hair out of his face, whispering reassurances to him, trying to soothe his frantic heartbeat.  It sounds like a jackhammer, and it frightens him.

Erica appears, an unopened first aid kit in one hand, glass of water in the other.  She cracks the seal on the kit and pulls out two bottles, handing them to Derek.  "He needs both,"  She instructs, "The fever is too strong for only one."  Derek nods, thanking every deity he knows that Erica was studying medicine in Winnipeg before the outbreak. 

Derek's hands shake as he opens the bottles of acetaminophen and ibuprofen.  Knocking out a few pills, he hands them to Erica, letting her give them to Stiles, stroking his throat and encouraging him to swallow.

She sits back on her heels with a sigh as Boyd returns with everything Derek asks for.  Erica prepares the compress, fingers deft as she places the cold cloth on Stiles' forehead.  Stiles moans when it makes contact with his skin.

"He has the common flu,"  Erica says, eyes distant as she listens for Stiles' pulse, "But it's gotten bad, real bad."

Derek scrubs a hand over his forehead, lips pursing, "I found him shivering in the middle of a blizzard."

Erica tsks, "No wonder why.  It should have been a mild fever if he caught it early, but he let it go for too long without treating it."

"He's a stubborn bastard."  Derek explains.

Boyd takes a seat on the floor by Derek's side, "He was alone?"

Derek looks at Stiles, his pale skin, cheeks gaunt, shadows underneath his eyes, "I think he's been alone for a long time."

"Poor guy."  Erica says sadly, pity in her expression.

Derek rises to his feet, trusting his betas to keep an eye on things.  He removes his winter clothing, hanging it by the fireplace to dry.  "Where's Isaac."  He asks, calling over his shoulders, as he picks clumps of ice from the fur lining his boots, throwing them into the fireplace and watching them sizzle. 

"Down at the lake.  He figured a snow storm would be the perfect time to go fishing."  Erica scoffs, unlacing Stiles worn boots, grimacing when she finally pulls them off.  "His toes are blue."  She says, unsurprised.  Taking his feet in her hands, she massages the skin.  "Another day and he would have lost them."

"He would have lost more than his toes if I hadn't found him."  Derek sighs, if he hadn't stumbled across him when he did, Stiles would be a frozen corpse by the side of the highway.

"What's he doing so far north?"  Boyd questions, face curious as he studies Stiles.

"Avoiding the infected."  Derek explains.  "He's been though a lot."

"I can imagine.  But you didn't leave him, Derek."  Erica says, looking at him, respect in her eyes.  "It would have been so easy for you to drive on past and leave him to die, but you didn't.  You _saved_ him."

Derek shakes his head, eyes growing soft as he watches the rise and fall of Stiles' chest,  "It's not that I didn't.  I couldn't leave him."

***

Stiles wakes in increments.  His head feels heavy, like a weight is strapped to the back of his neck.  Voices speak lowly nearby, and Stiles strains to hear them, no matter how much it makes his head throb.

"His heart is pounding."

"He's waking up." 

Cool fingers touch his forehead, lightly sweeping his hair from his face.  He tries to open his eyes, but they feel like they're sealed shut.  These people must have done something to him to prevent him from seeing.  He jerks away from the touch.

"Relax, you're safe."  A female voice says softly.

Stiles doesn't believe her one bit.

"Let me try something."  A vaguely recognizable male voice says before a familiar metal object is place in his arms.  His bat.  Stiles grips it so tight, he feels all the blood leave his fingers.  "See, we're not trying to harm you, we want to help."

Stiles tries to open his eyes again.  Feeling gunk peel away, he cracks them open, squinting in the firelight coating the room he's in.  A man crouches at his side, a thick black beard covering his chin, glinting hazel eyes, crinkling in concern, as he looks at Stiles.

His memories return quickly and he groans as his head throbs again, but he tries to sit up anyway, not wanting to be in a vulnerable position.  "Derek?"  He asks, his voice rough and unrecognizable.

"Take it easy."  Derek says, but he helps him sit anyway.  "You just recovered from a high fever, you've been out of it for days.  Relax."

"I had to take out your stitches."  A blonde woman says, pointing to his forehead.  Stiles reaches for his brow, feeling rough, uneven skin.  "Whoever did them didn't do a very good job, so you'll have a scar."  She says apologetically.

"I did them."  Stiles grunts, "Using a broken mirror and a dull needle."

"In that case, you did pretty good considering the circumstances."  Stiles ignores her words, glancing around the room he's in.  A large, dark-skinned man sits in an armchair, a book in hand, not paying any attention to the conversation they're having.  A curly haired man rests, sprawled by the fire, studying Stiles with his head tilted to the side and an unreadable look on his face.  He sees Stiles looking at him, but doesn't glance away.

The blonde woman stands by his feet, a hand on her hip, looking down towards the man at his side.  Derek.  The man who picked him up from the side of the road and brought him here.  These people looked after him for days, trying to make him better.  To heal him.  Stiles can't even fathom it.

"What do you want from me?"  He croaks, voice low and desperate, "I don't have anything I can give."

Derek frowns and then says, voice soothing, "Stiles, we don't want anything."

"Everyone wants something."  Stiles argues, " _Everyone_."

"In that case, we just want you better."  The woman says with a smile.

"Are you going to eat me?"  Stiles asks quietly, "Because if you are, please kill me first.  I don't want to be eaten alive."

Derek makes a face of such repugnant disgust, it makes Stiles' heart race even faster in fear.  "We don't want to _eat_ you, what the hell would give you that idea?"

Stiles shakes his head, and chuckles humourlessly, "You wouldn't be the first to have tried."

Derek's expression twists in outrageous horror and his breath stutters audibly.  Stiles looks around the room, to find the whole group wearing the exact same expression.

Stiles stomach grumbles, breaking the awful silence.

"Now it's more like you want to eat us."  The woman jokes.

Stiles blinks.

***

Derek heats a pot of butternut squash soup on the woodstove, as he thinks about how they're going to help Stiles recover.  And not just from the fever. 

Erica's sitting with Stiles in the living room, examining him to see if he's in good health.  Stiles doesn't allow Isaac or Boyd anywhere near him, his heart thumping every time they come close.  Only Derek and Erica are allowed to touch him.

He's obviously traumatized by what he's experienced.

After the pack introduced themselves to Stiles, Erica started up a conversation.  Stiles had let it slip that he hails from southern California.  Derek cannot even imagine what it was like to trek across the whole country to come here.

Now, he tunes in on his and Erica's conversation.  Stiles talks about how he knew the cold was bad for the infected.  Before the electricity was cut, Stiles had found one of the infected in the walk in freezer of a store while searching for food.  It was still breathing, chest rising up and down, but it couldn't move, couldn't do anything but breathe and growl.  That's when he knew he had to head north.

Stiles is open, speaking to Erica about what he experienced, leaving some parts out that Derek imagines he doesn't want to think of again.  But he's talking, and that's a good sign.

Derek brings a steaming bowl of soup back to Stiles, walking into the living room where his pack is gathered.  Isaac's eyes ghost curiously over Stiles' belongings where they rest within grabbing distance.  Isaac seems to focus on the crossbow, the most pristine looking item.  It's obvious Stiles cares for the weapon above anything else, including himself.  It must mean a lot to him.

"Who's _A.A._?"  Isaac asks abruptly, reading the initials engraved in cursive onto the fibreglass stock.  Derek watches as Stiles' expression shutters and closes.  A mask of horrible emptiness descending over his face, hiding away any and all emotions.

"No one, not anymore."  Stiles finally says after a long period of silence.

"Oh."  Isaac remarks embarrassed, seeming to realize his error, "I'm sorry."

Stiles shakes his head dismissively, "It's fine."

"Soup?"  Derek offers weakly, trying to change the subject.

"Thanks."  Stiles says, taking the bowl.  "It's good."  He remarks after taking a sip.

"You sound surprised."  Derek says amused.

"I've been eating nothing but burnt game and berries for the past few weeks, there's nothing else to have in the middle of winter.  I was expecting you guys to be eating the same."  Stiles says.

Derek settles by the end of the couch, the pack wandering off further into the cabin, going about their own business.  "We also eat game and berries."  He says.  They just don't have to burn their meat, wolves can tell when an animal has parasites or is diseased, even so, it's not like it effects them anyway.

Stiles points to the bowl, "This is squash."

"I also keep two greenhouses in the back."  A slow smiles spreads on Derek's face, "Where else would I try to grow my weed?"

Stiles shrugs, "I don't know, on your windowsill?"

Derek chuckles, nodding his head towards the bowl,  "Finish that up, and I'll show you."

***

"Were you a farmer before the outbreak?"  Stiles asks.  He looks around, eyes bouncing everywhere, unable to focus on one thing.

The greenhouse is massive and absolutely _packed_.  There are hardly any planters, instead wooden troughs holding dirt, elevate the plants above ground level.  Small trees, surrounded by stout ferns, and bushes of berries decorate the troughs.  Stiles recognizes peaches and apples trees, and he thinks he can even smell a hint of citrus in the air.  It's warm inside, warm and wet, probably due to the wood stove tucked in the corner, chasing away any hint of chill.

"Botanist, actually, I have a degree and everything, not that it means much now."  Derek says, reaching to  caress a healthy fern.  Stiles doesn't even know why he would bother growing ferns, it's not like they're edible.  For all Stiles knows, Derek probably grows them because he _wants_ to.

Stiles scoffs, "If you think anyone could grow something like this, you must be insane."  Stiles walks further in, along the thin path, feeling leaves brush against his legs.  The plants are so closely packed.  "This is incredible."  He says in awe.  "How do you even manage this?"

Derek scratches his head sheepishly.  "I have help.  I've been teaching Boyd, he has a natural green thumb.  Isaac kills anything he touches, and Erica just has no interest.  The second greenhouse is Boyd's, but he prefers flowers to greenery."

"But you can't eat flowers?"  Derek shakes his head and Stiles rises his brows in surprise, "You can?"

Derek smirks, leading him further into the jungle of plants, "Wait until you try Boyd's flower salad, it's like something out of a cartoon.  I always get bachelors buttons stigmata caught in my teeth."

Stiles snorts, "I can imagine."

Derek shows him around the greenhouse, pointing to various plants, explaining how growing seasons work in the greenhouse.  How Derek planted each tree at a specific time of the year, making sure they have a steady supply of fruit all year round.  The ferns Stiles thought were only planted for decoration are actually fiddleheads, and edible when young.  Most of Derek's plants are beautiful as well as utilitarian.  Although, he points out a few succulents he claims to just like the look of.  But then he goes on to explain that they absorb excess water in the soil, preventing other plants' roots from rotting.

Stiles finds himself smiling along, asking questions ranging from how Derek keeps snow from piling on the roof, to what his favourite plant is.  Derek's passionate about his work, and it makes something cold and icy in Stiles melt.  He's been keeping himself emotionless and untethered for such a long time, he never realized just how tiring it was, until now.

Derek has so much life in him.  So much to live for.  Stiles just wants to feel that again.

***

Stiles has been with them for two months when Erica finally brings up what's been on the pack's mind for half that time.  Namely, how they're supposed to tell Stiles they're all werewolves without scaring him away. 

Isaac wants to just come out and explain during dinner, but everyone else agrees that is a terrible plan.

"I don't want him to freak out and take off in the middle of the night."  Derek says.

They're out in the woods, chopping firewood and throwing ideas around.  Derek told Stiles they only have three axes as an excuse for him stay inside, far out of hearing range.  It's the sunniest day they've had in weeks, and Derek wants a good supply of wood, just in case another storm rolls in.  There's nothing worse than running out of firewood during a whiteout and being unable to chop more because he can't anything, not even his feet.  Werewolves are able to see in the dark, but a whiteout is impossible for anyone without x-ray vision.

"We have to tell him sometime."  Isaac whines pitifully, "I want him to come on full moon runs with us.  He's pack, but it doesn't feel like it, he needs to know about us."

"Yeah,"  Erica seconds, "We can't just sneak out every full moon, he's going to eventually notice we're gone."

Derek wedges his axe into a stump, running a hand through his hair in frustration.  "He used to think we were going to eat him.  If we suddenly say what we are, what's stopping him from thinking that again?"

"I'd like to think it's trust."  Erica says with a shrug.  "We shouldn't under estimate him."

"He's been through so much, Erica."  Derek says sadly, remembering something Stiles told him. 

Only a few weeks after Derek first introduced Stiles to the greenhouse, they were working together in the building, replanting a potato crop.  Derek showed Stiles how to portion potato pieces, how deep to place them in the soil, how much water to give them.  They worked in silence, until Stiles had cleared his throat.

"You know, my mom used to have a garden."  Stiles said voice wavering slightly, as he stared at the movements of his hands in the soil, refusing to look up at Derek.

Derek had stopped working, giving Stiles his full attention, waiting for him to continue.

"Only a few days after people started rioting and raiding, after the army barricaded themselves in their bases with the rich, abandoning us, I found her in her garden."  He had said, finally meeting Derek's eyes, his own filled with unshed tears.  He had raised his hand shakily, pointing directly over his stomach.  "Someone emptied a gun into her, right here, then stole all the tomatoes off her plants."

Derek had stared, wide eyed, at the story Stiles told him, hearing the devastating loss in his voice, feeling his own ache in sympathy.

Stiles had pursed his lips.  "My dad never got over it, I think he gave up on himself after it happened, starting drinking too much.  It's what got him killed."

"Stiles..."  Derek trailed off, lost at what to say, but Stiles just shook his head in sadness.

"I can't believe I just told you that, but I miss them, Derek, I miss them so damned much."

Derek had reached out, taking Stiles' hand in his, trying to convey some comfort, "I'm glad you did."

He knew at that moment that Stiles was pack.  Derek would do anything to protect him, to keep him safe, to wipe away his tears.  Stiles was _his_.

"We need to tell him."  Derek says with finality, "He deserves to know about us, and it's his decision to do what he will with the information."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, for a fic that started out as a meet-cute, playing on the meeting between Tallahassee and Columbus in Zombieland, it sure got less funny than it was supposed to.


	3. Chapter 3

Erica keeps sending him funny looks, and it's starting to creep Stiles out.  If he wasn't sure they weren't going to eat him anymore, he would be worried.  But there's no shortage of food in this community, and everyone is mostly vegetarian, baring the occasional deer Stiles stumbles across in the cellar. 

The deer always look like they were mauled by wolves, not cleanly killed by an arrow or bullet.  However, when Derek cooks the meat, it doesn't taste stringy or tough, like a scavenged carcass would.  Stiles would know, he's scavenged meat before, and he would rather not do it again.

But it isn't the meat that makes him start to suspect something is off. 

He's out in the forest foraging with Derek.  The snow is melting in the hot Manitoba sun, but there's still a bite to the air, so Stiles is wearing a thin jacket.  It's only been a few weeks since Stiles broke down in the greenhouse, telling Derek about how his parents met their end.  It still stings, it always will, but he's been carrying it around on the inside for so long, it felt good to let it out.  When Derek took his hand, trying to comfort him, he was glad for the company.

He still hasn't told anyone about his two best friends, and he doesn't think he ever will.  It hurts to even think of their names.  But having Derek there as a strong support with an attentive ear might make him open up one day.

Right now, Derek's shuffling through the rotting leaves, pointing to various fungus, and instructing Stiles on which ones are good to eat.  His bucket is filling rapidly and he's thinking of making a mushroom soup recipe he found in one of the many slightly charred cookbooks Derek keeps. 

His mom used to teach him how to use fresh produce to its best advantage, but after he was forced to leave California, and a garden he never wants to see again, the quality of the food he cooked was never a high priority.  Sometimes it was either eat a burnt, slightly off rabbit, or starve.

Stiles stretches his sore limbs and places his bucket on the ground.  He moves to sit on a nearby log, choosing to watch Derek work. 

Derek's movements are sinuous and calculated.  It's something about his whole personality Stiles noticed the first time he saw him work in the greenhouse.  He moves almost like a wolf on the hunt.  Everything is planned before it is executed.  Derek keeps a desk in his greenhouse, and it's full of drafting papers detailing an extension.  Derek has everything planned from the tiniest plant, to the set up of the pump sprinkler system.

It would almost be overkill, if it didn't make everything Derek does that much more beautiful.

The only deviance in his plan, was picking Stiles up.  Derek had driven down to Winnipeg to scavenge building materials when he stopped for Stiles.  Now, knowing Derek's personality, it's strange that he did.  The Derek Stiles knows would have kept driving past, lest he risk his family's safety by bringing a stranger into his home.  Stiles could have been a cold-blooded killer for all Derek knew, and yet he still brought him here.

"What are you thinking about so much?"

Stiles startles out of his thoughts to find Derek standing right in front of him.  He lost his shirt about a mile back, draped on a tree branch, and Stiles' eyes get distracted in the whorls of dark hair covering his chest.

"Huh?"  He says stupidly.

Derek rolls his eyes, but smiles, the corners crinkling up in the process.  He couches at Stiles' feet, bracing his hands of both of Stiles' knees as he looks at him, head tilted to the side.  Stiles swallows.

"Just things."  He says nervously, "Like what I'm going to do with the mushrooms."

Derek starts drawing abstract patterns over one knee with a finger, effectively distracting him.  "I saw you looking through my grandmother's cookbooks, find anything interesting?"

"Just a soup recipe."  Stiles shrugs, "But you don't have rice, so I don't know what else to use as filling."

Derek shakes his knee and stands, "Come on, we have some wild rice left over from last year's harvest in the cellar."  He offers his hand for Stiles to take, and he does.

The cellar is massive and very dusty.  It was dug separate from the house to prevent the fireplace from warming it through the floorboards.  It's always chilly and very dry inside.  Stiles doesn't particularly like going in, it's too dark and creepy, and he always has trouble seeing where he's going, even with a candle in hand.  Derek, on the other hand, seems to be having no trouble at all.

"Here we go."  Derek picks up a small sack of rice from a shelf, blowing dust from the top, sending it spiralling in the air.  "We harvest it from one of the nearby lakes, and it's always a rush to get enough before the waterfowl eat it all."

"Thanks."  Stiles says, taking the bag from Derek and tucking it under his arm.

"You know,"  Derek says, touching his forearm, feather-light, "You don't have to ask for anything, you can just take.  You're one of us, what is ours is yours."

Stiles ducks his head sheepishly.  He scratches at the back of his head, thinking about how he's supposed to reply without embarrassing himself, when a horrible groaning creak comes directly from behind him.

Derek freezes, his eyes growing comically wide.

"That can't be good."  Stiles remarks.

Derek lunges for him, pushing him out of the way, just as a massive beam collapses right where Stiles was standing, and where Derek took his place.        

"Derek!"  Stiles screams.  He can't see anything, there's too much dust in the air, and the candle doesn't help matters much.  Stiles falls to his knees, hands waving the dust away, only to find Derek lying beneath the beam.  It lies over Derek's back, and the sight of it has Stiles sucking in an eviscerating breath.  It obviously broke Derek's back, and Stiles doesn't know what to do but worry his hands. He's already lost so many people.  He doesn't want to lose another, especially not one he has so many unresolved feelings for.

Derek groans and Stiles startles.  Blood runs down his forehead in rivers from a cut above his brow, but he blinks, eyes opening and clearing.

"Stiles, you're safe."  Derek croaks and Stiles shudders, suddenly realizing he's crying.

"Don't speak, save your strength."  Stiles tries to say soothingly, but it probably comes out as the opposite.  The beam is huge and thick and looks like it was carved from a solid oak tree, probably by Derek himself.  Stiles won't be able to lift it.  He'll have to get the others, but by the time he goes out to find them in the woods, Derek might...  He just doesn't want Derek to die all alone.

Stiles cries, big, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.  He touches a light hand to Derek's cheek, stroking along his beard, thinking about what could have been.  It should have been him under that beam, not Derek.  Never Derek.

"Hey, shh,"  Derek whispers, "Shh, don't cry, everything will be fine.  They're almost here."

Right at that moment, the door to the cellar crashes open and the others run in.  Erica rushes forward, and pulls Stiles out of the way, wrapping him up in her arms, whispering soothing nothings into his ear as she strokes a hand down his back.  Stiles tucks his face into her neck, ears straining for the sound of Isaac and Boyd lifting the beam off Derek.

"Stiles, I'm fine."  Derek says after a long moment of silence, and Stiles rips himself away from Erica, only to find Derek sitting cross-legged on the ground like he didn't just have a beam five times the size of his body pressing him into a dirt floor.

Stiles collapses to his knees in front of Derek, unsure if he can touch, but Derek takes his hand and pulls it to his face.  "See, I'm all right."  He says.  "Everything's fine."  He says reassuringly.

"But, but, I saw you."  Stiles stammers hysterically.  "How can you be _fine_?"

"Don't worry about it."  Derek says, tugging Stiles closer until he's cradled in the warmth of his arms.  After some time, he pulls back from the hug to look sincerely into Stiles' eyes.  "Are you okay?"

"Am _I_ okay?  I'm not the one who almost died."  Stiles exclaims, new tears forming in his eyes, "I can't lose anyone else, Derek.  Don't pull shit like that again, you fucking asshole."  Derek smiles, pulling them both to their feet as Stiles wipes his tears away, "You really are an absolute fucking asshole."  Stiles says.

"Takes one to know one."  Derek smirks.

"Dick."  Stiles says.  Shakily he reaches a thumb out to wipe the bleeding cut on Derek's forehead.  Only to find smooth, unmarred skin underneath.

***

Ever since the incident in the cellar, Stiles refuses to let him out of his sight.  It would be annoying if Derek didn't enjoy his company so much.  His wolf adores Stiles, loves his scent and the warmth of his body as they stand side by side.

Stiles is easy to love, and already three months in, he's wormed his way into his and the pack's hearts.

Which is why it's so difficult to tell him what they are.  If Stiles decided to leave them, it would shatter him.  He's so used to seeing Stiles puttering around in the kitchen in the morning, sleepy-eyed and hair tousled in a way that makes Derek _want_.  He loves seeing him curled around Erica and Isaac in front of the fire, the two wolves looking at him attentively as he reads them spy thrillers.  Loves seeing him helping Boyd weed his flower beds, weaving the excess flowers into crowns for Erica.

Honestly, Derek doesn't know how they lived before Stiles came along, he can hardly even remember what it felt like.  Stiles is a necessity.  Which is the problem.  They need to tell him, lest he reach his own wrong conclusion.  After Stiles had wiped the blood from Derek's forehead in the cellar, he wore an expression of such confusion when he found no cut underneath.  It tore at Derek, his wolf whined for him to just tell his pack-mate everything.

And so, Derek rises from bed that morning, determined.  Today is the day he will come out and say it.  He walks into the living room, finding Stiles in his usual spot by the fire, a cup of root chicory in one hand, a book in the other.  He's wrapped in a blanket Boyd knitted two winters ago, completely absorbed in his book.  Derek takes a seat by Stiles' side.  Stiles shuffles over, not even looking at him, to press the length of his side along Derek's.

Derek sighs in happiness.  He sniffs and inhales the combined scent of salt and petrichor that follows Stiles around.  Finally, Stiles puts down the book and rests his head on Derek's shoulder.  "What are we doing today?"  He asks sleepily.

Derek licks his lips as Stiles rubs his cheek on his shoulder, inadvertently scenting him.  "I was hoping to graft a few of the citrus trees, join me?"

Stiles hums, voice low and rough, "Yeah.  I'd like that a lot."

Derek smiles, and scrapes his beard over Stiles' other cheek, transferring his scent.  Stiles pulls away and blinks up at Derek.  "What was that?"  He asks, fingers ghosting over the cheek Derek scented, skin pinking gorgeously either from the roughness of his beard or embarrassment.

Derek winks, and the red that blooms on Stiles' cheek, well, he's sure of the cause of that.

The moment they enter the greenhouse, it's like walking into a sauna.  Boyd must have restarted the fire in the woodstove.  Derek feels his shirt sticking to his skin, so he peels it over his head, tossing it on his desk chair.  Stiles removes his jacket, and his outer shirt, leaving his tank beneath.  Surprising, since Stiles always feels cold, no matter the circumstances.

Derek checks over his grafting supplies, finding the buds he wants to transplant green and healthy.  Looking over his shoulder, he checks on Stiles.  He's crouching in front of a raised bed on the other side of the greenhouse in front of a stout kaffir lime tree that started bearing fruit a few days ago.  Derek puts down his tools, and walks over to Stiles, standing by his side.

"You really are incredible."  Stiles says seriously and out of nowhere, turning around to look at Derek.  "I don't know how you do it."

Derek smiles fondly, and offers his hand.  Stiles takes it and pulls himself to his feet, but he doesn't move away, he stays in Derek's space, an unreadable expression upon his face.  "Do what?"  Derek asks.

"This,"  Stiles gestures around him, "You've created a rainforest in a building, it's cold outside, and yet you've got limes growing like it's nothing."

Derek reaches out and gently cups Stiles' cheek, "You're pretty amazing too.  You're smart, resourceful, know your way around a crossbow like it's the back of your hand.  I'm so glad you're here."

Stiles' lips twitch in a faint hint of a smile, one that is quick to disappear, "Then why don't you tell me about what you've been hiding?"

Derek frowns, "Picked up on that, didn't you?"

Stiles nods, "You should have died in that cellar, Derek.  But you didn't, and I want to know why."

Derek purses his lips, worried, "I don't want you to leave us."

"I won't." 

"You can't promise that."  Derek says sadly.

"I can, and I am."  Stiles says, determined.  "I won't ever leave, I've gotten somewhat attached to you."

"Yeah?"  Derek says hopefully.

"Yeah, big guy, now tell me."  Stiles urges.

"It would be better if I showed you."  Derek says quietly, still unsure, but he trusts Stiles, if he says he won't run, Derek believes him.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and lets the wolf take over.  He feels his ears lengthen and point, his claws come out, and his incisors sharpen.  Stiles' heartbeat races and the sharp metallic scent of fear permeates the air.  Derek's heart sinks into his stomach, and he pulls away, hand leaving Stiles' cheek.

"No you don't."  Stiles says, grabbing Derek's wrist, pulling his hand back.

"But-"  Derek begins only to be interrupted when Stiles leans even closer.  His deft fingers trace over Derek's brow, worrying over the area where his eyebrows used to be.  Then they move to his ears, Stiles delicately runs the pads over his fingers over the sensitive point, and Derek feels blood rush to them, no doubt turning them red.  Finally, Stiles cups the back of his neck, burying his fingers in Derek's hair.

"You look so beautiful."  Stiles whispers.

 

 [Tumblr link to art](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/145215288622/baby-you-should-stick-around-95-k-words)

 

Derek startles, pulling back to look in Stiles' eyes, seeing nothing but the truth in their depths.  Something breaks in Derek then, and his wolf retreats, turning his features human again.  He was so worried for such a long time about Stiles' reaction.  This is so much better than anything he could have imagined.

"You're not scared?"  Derek asks carefully.

"Well, yeah, of course I am."  Stiles says easily, "You have pointy teeth and sharp claws.  But that's all dressing,"  Stiles is quick to reassure.  "You're still you, and that's all that matters."

"Oh."  Derek says stupidly.

"So, what are you?"  Stiles asks with a smile, "Wait, let me guess...  Dark elf?"

"What?"  Derek says, offended.  He does not look like an _elf_.  "I'm a werewolf."

"Huh, I never would have guessed that.  Aren't you supposed to only wolf out during the full moon?"

Derek shakes his head, "Hollywood got a lot wrong, I'll give you a book, you can read up on us if you want."

"Wait, us?"  Stiles tilts his head to the side, "Is everyone a werewolf but me?"

Derek nods.

Stiles pouts, "Well, now I just feel like the un-cool kid in the playground."

***

Dinner is a rambunctious affair to say the least.  Erica squeals and pulls him into a hug when Derek announces that he told Stiles.  She then proceeds to list all the things she wants them to do together now that he's in the know.  Stiles manages to catch something about chasing rabbits, but truth be told, Derek's distracting him.  He's leaning back in his usual chair at the head of the table, an easiness in the way he drapes himself that Stiles has come to appreciate over the past few months.

He extricates himself from Erica's embrace, and takes his usual seat by Derek's side.  Derek sends him a soft smile that sends Stiles' heart racing.  Derek can probably hear it.  Excellent hearing is just one of the things werewolves apparently possess, as well as fast healing, which explains what happened in the cellar.

"You good?"  Derek asks.

Stiles smiles, nodding, "Yeah, perfect."

After dinner, Stiles wraps himself in a warm jacket and goes to join Derek on the porch.  The others have run off to unknown parts, so it's just them.

"Hey."  Stiles says, sliding up to Derek's side.  The sky is cloudless, and multitudes of stars shine amongst the inky black.  Stiles finds himself looking up, searching for constellations, wondering if the ones he used to see in California would still be visible in Manitoba. 

He feels the weight of Derek's gaze on his cheek, and Stiles turns to look at him.  Derek looks happy, like nothing could mess up this moment, not even the apocalypse.  Stiles turns around and leans on the railing.  "So, Erica tells me you guys run naked through the woods during the full moon."

Derek smirks, "In a matter of speaking." 

"What do you mean by-  Oh."  Stiles says when Derek unbuttons his pants and tugs his shirt over his head, then suddenly Derek isn't standing there anymore.  In his place sits a dark wolf.  His fur is pitch black, save for a bit of white under his muzzle.  "Wow."  Stiles remarks.

Derek visibly preens.  Stiles kneels until he's eye level with him.  He runs his fingers through his fur, feeling it soft and warm beneath his hands.  "How are you so beautiful?"  Stiles finds himself saying.  "In all three forms, just,"  Stiles makes a noise of disbelief.  Derek nudges at his face, cold nose pressing to his skin as hot breath exhales over him, raising goose bumps.  Stiles falls back on his butt and Derek comes forward.  He curls up in Stiles' lap, tail wrapping protectively around his body, as he rests his large head and forelegs on Stiles' legs.

Stiles keeps running his hands through Derek's fur, grinning like a fool when Derek starts making grumbling noises deep in his chest.  He's like a warm blanket that Stiles never wants to unwrap from around him.  But, eventually his eyes grow heavy and his head starts bobbing. 

Derek climbs off his lap and nudges him with his nose.  Derek transforms back into his human skin and starts pulling clothes back on.  It's too dark to see anything which Stiles is secretly grateful for.  If Stiles saw Derek in nothing but his birthday suit, he thinks he might faint.

They go inside, and only a few minutes later he's pushing open the door to his room when Derek stops him with a hand on his wrist, "Sleep with me tonight?"  He asks, hope in his eyes.

Stiles looks at him for a long second, his heart pounding with all that he feels.  "Let me grab my pillow."

Derek sleeps on the side of the bed closest to the door, so Stiles takes the wall.  He's not used to sleeping with other people, but something about Derek relaxes him, and he finds himself turning on his side to face Derek's back.

Derek must feel Stiles' gaze, because he shifts until they're both turned towards each other, sharing breath.  Derek's eyes are gentle and soft as he reaches for him, fingers ghosting over the faint scar bisecting Stiles' eyebrow.  "I'm so happy you're here with me."  Derek whispers.

Stiles smiles softly.  He takes Derek's hand in his and entwines their fingers together.  He pulls their hands down to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of Derek's before letting go.  Stiles looks deep into Derek's eyes, trying to convey everything he feels.

Derek leans forward, looking for something in Stiles' expression.  Evidently he finds it, because he kisses Stiles.  It's slow and sweet and everything Stiles could ever want.  He sighs into Derek's mouth when it becomes too much, breaking the kiss.  Derek rests his forehead against Stiles', always so gentle, always so soft, and closes his eyes.

Stiles feels safe, he feels happy, he feels at peace, he feels at home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this little fic, tell me what you thought :)


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